Fragile Steel
by HoshisamaValmor
Summary: What a world it was, prioritizing the existence of killers over the safety of children. Some Blanca thoughts on Ash after his panic attack.


_'Life isn't fair' _was a statement that summed up both the most unapologetic imaturity, as well as the most painstrikingly harsh reality. It could be used to justify the unthinkable, brushing off any resemblance of responsability the same way one dusts off their coats; but it_ was_ a ruthless, blunt and unescapable truth.

The thin line between both sides seemed non-existent. Other times it was just downright practical to maintain - again, the brushing off of responsability, of thinking too much about it.

Other times, that blurry line stood out in bold, blaring and obscene outlines.

Blanca saw them quite blatantly when he found Ash on that worned out and dirty mattress on the motel he had followed the boy and the older henchman into. That treacherous thin line was there, with its new added ugly colour -_ hypocracy_; after all, Blanca knew who the Monsieur was, what he did. But who was Blanca, a mercenary killer, to point accusing fingers? However, as much as that fragile balance was one he hadn't particularly struggled with in his life - chosing to mostly ignore it, bowing an acquiescent head to it - these such moments provoked no hesitation.

The acknowledgemenf of life's unfairness didn't mean he would be indifferent to it. Not when hypocracy and practicality were directly faced with its real, harmful result.

Blanca didn't think, didn't analyse any of this at the time. His body simply reacted by instinct, by some deep-seated empathy in the core of his nature that he perhaps sometimes forgot - or chose to tone down. How many soldiers had he seen breaking down, their bodies giving up under the pressure for the mind to hold on, losing against the crushing weight of it all? He recognized it too well the moment he saw Ash's anger and shame turn into panic, could almost feel how the boy's lungs closed and compressed and his heart got crushed between them, as if Blanca's own lungs were synced in tune. How Blanca always _hated_ panic attacks; the way the body shuts down, limbs fail as they are deemed useless, body falling like a rock, air suddenly turned into concrete, how the mind is kept fully conscious to survive but instead only feels every single second of it all, of being trapped and crushed and drowning in its own cage, thinking it'll just end, shut down, die,_ God it hurts, I can't breathe, I can't breathe_. How many times had Blanca witnessed it.

Blanca held Ash close, closer, overcoming that first instant of syncronized dread and becoming fully calm. His hand moved in slow, grounding circles on the boy's back. A soothness no one had likely shown him in so long, Ash probably didn't remember it existed anymore. He spoke in a hushed and tranquil voice, reassuring the boy it'd be alright, that it would pass. Ash had little reason to believe him; him, a stranger, him, an adult man, a mercenary, an employer of his biggest tormentor. But for some reason, Ash did. Because Ash was simply a child, and children always gravitate towards care and attention, no matter how feeble those might be.

All that pain-stricken and blood-forged steel that coated Ash's persona vanished for those long minutes until he managed to find back his breath, to weep, to long for that comfort and reassurance Blanca gave him so effortlessly, without wanting anything in return. Those minutes passed, however, and slowly, the barriers were brought back up, in a way that felt almost physical for Blanca; how Ash's body started to withdraw and close, the naked skin freezing from the contact against Blanca's body, exhaustion giving place to an induced acceptance, of some form of payback for this moment. Blanca saw the flash of confusion in his eyes when he unwrapped his arms from Ash's body and stood back, suggesting for the boy to shower and promptely turning his back to give him privacy to do so.

What a world it is, making children assume no one would help them in exchange for some sexual favour.

Blanca thought about it now, as he absent-mindedly heard the running water in the bathroom. The life of violence that Ash had suffered and would continue to pave unescapably; the life of fun and he could otherwise have had. It was specially blatant when the boy smiled later; it was both inspiring and haunting, how he could be so damaged and yet still so unscathed somewhere beneath the ruins.

What was the point of thinking too much about it? The boy wouldn't escape Monsieur's clutches. That iron grip might eventually provide him with a semblance of a good life; even if paid by all sorts of harmful means. But what else would there be for the boy to hope for? Every single moment of pain and suffering from his past would be there forever, and he would not be able to survive without Monsieur's love or wrath.

The henchman was clearly overstepping his place, however, and that was something that could be much easily dealt with. The Monsieur's interest in Ash was clearly beyond that of a regular pimp or a human trafficker; how well would that mix with the fact one of his henchmen was manhandling his prized possession behind his back? But then, _Blanca_ would be the one overstepping his place; his business was to assess and train Ash, not to wonder or question about what other activities the boy engaged with, with whom, or how willingly. The Monsieur's business was his own. How he handled his men and his possessions was his own problem.

Which meant Blanca could have a word with the henchman in question. Off the record, strictly non-professionally. For his own amusement, be it. No one would have anything to say about it; not the Monsieur, not the henchman Marvin, not Ash. Not Blanca himself.

How did that effectively change the reality Ash lived in? It might be like dropping a single, disdainful water drop into the mouth of the starving. A miserable act that instead sparked anew the rage and will to hold on for a little while longer.

In an ideal world, Ash (and anyone else, for that matter) should not live like that. A thing, a possession of someone else, whose benefits and gratifications did not overwrite the fact that he was a pet, a child molested and damaged in unimaginable ways. But the world was not ideal, and after all, where would Blanca be if it were? The world prioritized his existence over the wellbeing and safety of children - and he wasn't fully against it.

Sadly, life isn't fair.

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the end

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Author's Note: I feel this got a bit too presumptious, but it is what it is what it is.

I rather liked Blanca as a character for how controversial he is, and Private Opinion was a great read, with a particular emphasis on that motel scene where Ash has the panic attack and Blanca's reaction to it. It's also almost hitting 1 year since my last and worst panic attack, and I kind of wanted to dwell a bit in my memories of that incident and the person that helped me survive it. So I wanted to try to write something in that league. Written to anti-nightcore old songs.

Thanks for reading, feedback is appreciated.


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